


A Moment Of Your Time

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Beads, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Confessions, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Idiots in Love, Kink Meme, M/M, Masturbation, Sex Toys, interruptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23704054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Aziraphale interrupts Crowley during an intimate moment, and then learns a few things.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 189
Kudos: 1235
Collections: Good Omens sweetest/ My favorites in GO fandom, Top Aziraphale Recs





	A Moment Of Your Time

Aziraphale, having never developed the habit of sleeping, tends to spend most of his nights reading instead. It's the best time of day for it really, there's a certain sort of quiet to the night, something in the way the air slows and cools to stillness. The reliance on artificial light doesn't bother Aziraphale's eyes, because he doesn't expect it to, and he's unlikely to be disturbed by anyone other than Crowley, whose presence could never be unwelcome. Or perhaps the occasional criminal, intent on relieving his shop of money or inventory - and is usually very surprised to find themselves spending the rest of the night in a pocket dimension constructed entirely from their most embarrassing childhood memories.

But, after a late dinner, Aziraphale had been overwhelmed with a burst of unexpected productivity and, during this particular night, he'd managed to accomplish a considerable amount of re-shelving, work his way through his taxes and also make rather excellent progress on the novel he's secretly been writing for a hundred and fifty six years. By the time nine o'clock in the morning comes around he's feeling rather accomplished, and instead of opening the shop, he locks it up behind him and heads to Mayfair, intent on visiting Crowley for a change. After all, it's only fair that they take turns to make the effort, make things a little more equal between them, now that they're free to spend time together more openly. He'd been given a standing invitation after Armageddon, a fact which still manages to quietly thrill him.

It's a nice enough day that the walk is pleasant, and several people wish him a good morning, completely unprompted, which is almost unheard of. He likes to think it bodes well for the rest of the day.

He travels in the lift to the top floor of Crowley's building, and then heads out, making his way to the demon's door and rapping gently on it. It's only polite after all, amusing a thought as it is, Aziraphale is not the sort of person that could get away with walking straight in and throwing himself upon his best friend's furniture, with the careless, devil-may-care attitude, and effortless style that Crowley regularly employs. No, instead he waits for what he considers is a reasonable amount of time, and then slightly longer, because it's Crowley after all. More than long enough for Crowley to grumble at the interruption, and to pull himself away from whatever he's doing, to sway his way to the door and pull it open for him. When there's no reply Aziraphale simply pushes the door open himself and walks in. It's possible the demon is asleep. Crowley doesn't have a set schedule for it, though Aziraphale's aware that he enjoys the simple pleasure of it fairly regularly, overindulges in it sometimes, sleeping for days, or even weeks, at a time. But Aziraphale will be the first to admit that he's also been known to be distracted by his own pursuits to much the same degree.

The study is empty, as is the bare kitchen. The atrium is lovely, as always, but also lacking a demonic presence. Though there is a quiet rustling sound from further in, suggesting he's managed to wake Crowley with his entrance. He diverts to the bedroom and finds the door ajar, he sets his fingers to it, and swings it open.

"Crowley I -"

There's a brief, so very brief, moment where the demon is a shockingly naked stretch of limbs, long legs pulled up and spread apart, chest a bowing curve of ribs and concave stomach. One hand on the stiff, reddened shape of his erection, balls drawn up tightly beneath, the other hand stretched down between his skinny thighs, fingers gripping the smooth, rounded white shape of something pressed against a stretched, glistening rim, before it nudges _inside_. 

And then blown, yellow eyes meet his own.

"Wha - FUCK."

There's a flurry of movement, almost too fast for Aziraphale to process, black-nailed hands clawing the sheets over everything on display, every pale line of Crowley's body is suddenly covered by messy bunches and stretched lines of dark material, and he's scrambling back against the headboard, hissing a word that never manages to break free. He chokes it back entirely and starts again.

" _Aziraphale_ -" 

"I'm so terribly sorry, I heard you and I thought you were -" What did he think? Aziraphale finds himself suddenly missing a purpose for coming here. He finds himself missing a lot of things. But most desperately and viscerally he's missing the sight of Crowley in an insatiable arc of pleasure. He's missing this secret, beautiful, selfish part of him that he's never seen before. Crowley's well-known and well-loved familiarity suddenly made something exquisitely new and deeply desirable. Aziraphale understands, quite suddenly and completely, what it is to want something so desperately it feels like madness. His body is aroused entirely without his consent, skin alive beneath his clothes, throat parchment dry. There is nothing in his exceptionally well-read mind but those few seconds of naked pleasure, every detail of it.

"You couldn't have - fuck - you couldn't have fucking knocked?!" Crowley's mouth is a slash of teeth, throat flushed red, and Aziraphale isn't sure whether it's lingering arousal or embarrassment, but reasons it's probably both, with an understandable dash of anger. The demon's left foot has escaped the sheet, pale and bare, and suddenly scandalous in a way that Aziraphale doesn't entirely understand.

"I'm sure I did," he hears himself say, wondering how he can possibly still manage to sound so calm. "Perhaps you didn't hear me."

"I didn't - I didn't - no." Crowley's voice cracks, and he swallows convulsively. "No, I didn't fucking hear you, _clearly_." He sounds breathless and hoarse, as if he's been indulging his corporation's needs for hours. Which is a thought that has no business being in Aziraphale's head, and in no way helps the situation. 

"If I'd known you were engaged in -" Aziraphale decides now is not the time to worry too much about phrasing. Crowley would definitely not appreciate it. "If I'd known you were doing that I wouldn't have come in."

" _Obviously_ ," Crowley chokes out. His voice sounds less embarrassed now but sharper somehow, tight with something pained and miserable.

Both Crowley's hands are on the sheet, still holding fists of it at neck and hip, leaving none free to - Aziraphale can't help but realise that the intimate accessory that Crowley had been using, that line of rounded shapes, is almost certainly still partly inside him. And once he's thought it, it becomes the only thing he can think, resistant to all attempts to shake it loose. It's an unhelpful thing to focus on, but his brain is quite unwilling to entertain other thoughts.

"Would you like me to go?" he asks, it's only polite after all. He's the one who interrupted, of course Crowley isn't going to leave. But, annoyingly, Aziraphale has read two hundred and seventeen books on social etiquette and not one of them had mentioned how to react to walking in on your best friend unexpectedly pleasuring himself. 

Crowley stares at him, eyes wide, that golden yellow flooding them completely, leaving them flecked and lovely. Aziraphale has always wanted to tell him as much, but it seemed such a vulnerable place to touch.

He realises, belatedly, that there isn't usually a second option to his question. Not when interrupting someone in - in an intimate moment, of course it's polite to leave, of course that's what he should do. The very idea that there would be any other option open to him is ridiculous.

No.

He should leave.

"I'm sorry, I should leave, of course," he says firmly. Unfortunately his dithering has given Crowley more than long enough to take in the awkwardness of him, to sweep his form with eyes that miss nothing. Certainly not his rather impolite state of arousal, which the cut of his trousers was never designed to hide. A fact which had never seemed pertinent before.

"You have an erection," Crowley says quietly, he sounds surprised rather than offended. His shoulders are slowly relaxing out of their defensive arch, leaving a spare, rounded curve to break free of the material. Aziraphale forces himself not to look at it.

"Yes," he agrees, for want of anything else to say. "Sorry about that." That's probably one apology too many, but politeness has always been his defence mechanism for awkward situations.

Crowley raises both eyebrows. "I didn't know you...made the habit." The nod of head towards his groin certainly doesn't help. It calls attention to it, in a way that feels like an accusation, and it's Aziraphale's turn to feel the creeping flush of embarrassment. 

"I don't normally," he admits. He doesn't want to say any more, but honesty is clawing at his tongue. "I'm afraid you made a rather - ah - captivating sight when I arrived. I couldn't help it, it's not usually so resistant to my wishes not be...aroused."

Crowley's throat makes a noise that he seems to immediately regret.

Aziraphale decides suddenly that he's making this situation unbearable by remaining, and moves to back out of the door he'd so casually flung open a few minutes before.

"Aziraphale, you don't have to leave - if you - not if you don't want to." The words are choked out, a breathy crack to them, as if they escaped by force, almost against his will if the demon's shocked expression is anything to go by. Crowley's fingers clench and then twist in the sheet, confused almost whether he should be covering himself or not. 

The thought of him not, of there being anything Aziraphale could say right now to make him cast the material aside and let him see everything. Words have been his speciality for as long as he can remember, and yet suddenly it's almost impossible to find any that do his current state of mind justice. It seems especially cruel that this is a moment when he needs them the most.

"My presence can't be very conducive to - that is to say, I should let you - er - finish." Is that a polite way to phrase it. Aziraphale doesn't quite know what's appropriate any more.

"Do you want to stay?" Crowley asks, voice oddly thin, giving the question a desperate sort of air. "I mean, I wouldn't - I'd be ok if you wanted to watch. Or, y'know, if you wanted me to -" His voice wavers uncertainly, as if he's expended any bravery he had. Aziraphale suspects the end of the sentence will contain the words 'to get dressed,' and 'never speak of this again.'

He doesn't want that. Anything but that.

"Yes." Aziraphale finds himself saying. Because honesty has seen him through fairly well so far. "I'd like that - I'd like to - anything that you're comfortable with."

Crowley looks startled, and Aziraphale wonders if he'd admitted a bit too much there. Or perhaps he'd simply spoken too fast, the words sounding far too desperate.

"Anything I'm comfortable with," Crowley mutters, then breathes a laugh that seems more pained than anything else. He seems to consider the picture he makes tangled in the sheet for a moment, before he leans forward. He's no longer avoiding Aziraphale's eyes, and is now watching him closely. "You ever done anything like this before?" he asks, but not unkindly.

It's a very different question, this gentle inquiry for the extent of his intimate experiences. Aziraphale can't help but read beneath the words, though it may be presumptuous of him. He can't help but think that Crowley asking him that question suggests the possibility that he's being asked, not just to watch, but to participate. That's he's being invited to touch him as well. 

"I have some experience," Aziraphale admits.

Crowley's mouth draws into a line.

"Some?" he pushes. It seems important to him, Aziraphale supposes that's fair.

"With men, hands and mouths," he offers. It feels far too crude to name the acts, to describe how he'd touched other men for Crowley, or how they'd touched him. But all the words he's quite capable of using to explain exactly what he'd done seem to have deserted him.

"No anal play?" Crowley asks.

"No," Aziraphale admits. He's never heard it described as such, but the meaning is rather obvious.

Crowley works his jaw for a moment, and then very slowly lets the sheet slide down, lets it gather in his lap. He lets Aziraphale see the freckled curves of his shoulders, and the slopes of his oddly shaped collarbones, the slender angles of his arms, and the rust-red patch of hair on his chest, between small, tight nipples, his ribs a ladder of long curves on either side, and Aziraphale forces himself not to react to any of it. Crowley gives a very quiet cough of what sounds nothing like amusement, before he swears and drags the sheet away completely, leaving him naked for Aziraphale to look at. The crooked rise of both his long legs, the hard bones of his knees, the almost-sharp, narrow spread of his hips. Aziraphale has always known the demon was beautiful. But he hadn't expected the proof of it to be so physically affecting, he hadn't expected that seeing his corporation bare would make him feel so strangely vulnerable. As if the demon could crack him open with a word.

Aziraphale still finds himself shuffling to the end of the bed, pale trousers pressed against the dark sheets.

"May I?" he asks, because touching him without asking feels impossible.

Crowley's head moves in a jerky nod, an almost startled response to his request. 

Aziraphale very slowly reaches out, lays his fingers on the bone of Crowley's ankle, finds the skin as warm as his own. The demon gives a breathy shudder at the contact, and spreads his legs open, exposing himself for Aziraphale. His balls have softened a little, but he's still mostly erect, the length of his cock flushed and shiny, presumably from some sort of lubrication. It's messy and human and impossibly lovely.

"Oh." Aziraphale has a much better look at what Crowley was using on himself now. It's a line of transparent, rounded beads, in some unyielding but gently flexible material, interconnected by much thinner spaces. It looks like a crudely constructed necklace. Some of it is clearly still inside him, the tight clench of his arse held around a thin space between beads. He makes such an obviously sexual picture, so casually alluring, that Aziraphale finds himself fighting the urge to lean in and touch.

"What do I call it?" Aziraphale isn't sure of the name.

"Anal beads," Crowley says, jaw working afterwards like he's trying to tug the words back. Or trying to decide if he should be ashamed of admitting it to him.

"They're exquisite," Aziraphale decides. "Do you place them all inside?"

"You push them in and then pull them out," Crowley explains. "It leaves the - er - the rim of your arsehole sensitive, s'nice."

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at the word, at Crowley's use of it to describe something he clearly enjoys.

"Shut it," Crowley tells him. There's the faintest beginnings of a smile behind the words. Aziraphale offers him one of his own, which tugs a breath out of the demon, causes his body to relax a little more, legs stretching.

"May I touch it?" Aziraphale asks.

Crowley's throat jerks at the question, once, and then again, in rapid swallows.

"You want a friends with benefits thing here, is that it?" he asks, there's a tilt to his mouth that seems to want to be teasing, but it's too tight to manage it.

Aziraphale is aware of the term, and he suspects, by Crowley's tone and the way he seems quietly resigned, that he's using it to distance them both from having to confront anything in the way of feelings. Though whether that's for his own benefit or Crowley's, he's not sure.

Aziraphale decides to be honest, he owes Crowley that much at least, and if it's too much, then he will accept that as well.

"I would like to see you, as you were when I walked in. I would like to be the cause of it. If that's something you would find enjoyable. Only if it's something you would find enjoyable, of course."

An exhale shoves its way out of Crowley. He nods, sharply, drawing his legs open wider, encouraging Aziraphale to take off his shoes and coat and join him on the bed. All his movements are slow and careful. Aziraphale is uncertain how much of the toy is already inside him. The thought that he may be allowed to find out leaves him prickly and hot with desire. 

"Alright, fine, we're doing this, I guess," Crowley says, with a laugh that sounds strained. He twists briefly to retrieve something from beside the bed, it turns out to be a pump bottle, which he hands to Aziraphale. "There's your lube, use it. In and out motions work the best for me. Don't pull hard on them unless I tell you to, and don't stop when I - when I come, I like to ride my way into a second."

Aziraphale nods understanding, more than happy to have clear instructions. He's always been very good with instructions, there's something reassuring about them, about knowing exactly what Crowley wants from him, how best to please him. He settles on the bed, one hand briefly curled at Crowley's thigh to steady himself, and he doesn't miss the quiet hiss that escapes, that breaks in half when he finds himself easing it up the bed, to see better where Crowley is slickly filled.

They've so rarely touched over the years, and to be this close feels suddenly overwhelming. To be invited so easily into sexual intimacy with him. And, at this moment, Aziraphale can't for the life of him remember why it seemed so imperative that they maintained physical distance. Their friendship had spanned millennia, with not a whisper of anyone finding out. He can't currently bring to mind any good reason why he'd never allowed himself to reach out, to touch the demon whenever an opportunity arose. He can't understand why the many long years are so full of him not touching Crowley, until the whole ugly mass of it feels upsetting, feels like an accusation. Crowley would have let him, he knows without question if he'd reached out, Crowley would have reached back without hesitation.

Perhaps that was what he'd been afraid of.

"If you want to stop," Crowley says quietly, shaking him from his thoughts in a way that says he'd been quiet and still for too long. "You just have to say. I don't expect -" His mouth twists, suddenly looks pained and guilty, the tangle of it horrible to see. "Fuck, Aziraphale, you're not obligated to do anything because you're here."

No," Aziraphale says, quiet but firm. "No, I want to, I just -" he can't think of a way to end that sentence that isn't _I just want to remember every moment of this, I want to look at your beautiful body, I want to bring you pleasure and I'm terribly afraid_. "I just need a moment. I've never -" _never done this before, never seen you like this, never imagined I would have my hands on you like this, never been this excited and this terrified in my life._ There's so much he suddenly seems incapable of saying. It all feels so very important, but at the same time, possibly ruinous to voice out loud. "I've never done this before." It's not enough, but it's something.

Crowley grunts something unsurprised, and there's another question in it, or perhaps an apology, some comment that this is too much, too fast. That he may choose to stop this himself, to spare Aziraphale...something. Aziraphale is so afraid of that happening that he shuffles forward, spreads Crowley's warm thighs open, so he can see, the gentle, spare curves of his buttocks, patches and drips of lubricant on his inner thighs, and the vulnerable stretch of skin beneath his balls, leading to the impatient clench of his hole around hard silicone. 

There are three, large beads left on the line of the toy, gradually increasing in size, which suggests those inside him are slightly smaller. Aziraphale touches one curiously, then forces himself to be bold, now he has permission, he gives the line of them a slow, cautious pull. Crowley makes a wonderful, shivery noise of surprise and lust at the tension, as the rim of his anus slowly stretches open for the bead inside him, the width of it slowly easing outwards, glistening and wet. 

"Satan, we're really doing this," Crowley murmurs, knees drawing up, throat cracking on a moan as he shivers and relaxes back into the pillows.

Aziraphale touches the bead as it slides free, he can't help himself, he touches the strange, slick warmth of it, before his thumb is carefully nudging it back inside, just barely pressing against the soft give of Crowley's arsehole as it pinches shut. It's such an exquisitely arresting sight that Aziraphale immediately puts tension on the beads again, until the swell of it is almost free, before he eases it back inside again. Crowley groans, hips moving, hand dropping to circle and squeeze his cock.

"Tha'sit, just like that."

It's an amazing realisation, that he's the one giving Crowley pleasure, he's the one coaxing his body to open, to stretch and take what he gives it. Aziraphale eases the narrow portion deeper, until one of the larger beads, two from the end, presses rounded and hard against the tightly clenched hole. He smears lubricant over it, and around the rim, making a soft, encouraging noise that has Crowley's thighs quivering delightfully. Before he's moving his thumb to the back of the bead and pressing, just a touch, just enough to stretch, enough to let the rim widen around it, before he relaxes again, the hard curve of it slipping out entirely, leaving Crowley's anus clenching around nothing.

Crowley's toes curl, fingers cupping and squeezing at his cock. He makes a breathy noise that sounds like the bitten-off, first syllable of Aziraphale's name. Or perhaps he simply pretends as much.

"Yesss, fuck, please."

Aziraphale presses the bead in again, but stops halfway, leaving the rim stretched and pink and lovely around it. Aziraphale holds it there to enjoy the sight for a moment, to feel the tremble in Crowley's thighs, the way his body starts to curve, before twitching its way back down.

It's so very arousing.

He lets the bead relax and ease slowly free again, for just a moment, before pushing it all the way inside, letting his thumb tuck in gently after it - which pulls a delicious groan out of the demon - before he's simply circling his closed anus, brushing that silicone join, over and over.

Crowley's heel pulls the sheets askew when it moves up the bed, creating a beautifully lewd stretch of thighs around Aziraphale's knees. Crowley's head is tipped down to watch now, eyes sharp and wide, staring at Aziraphale as if he's never seen him before. His free hand thrown over his head to fist in the pillows.

"Is this alright?" Aziraphale asks him.

Crowley nods jerkily, gives a laughing moan.

"Yesss, s'good, do it - do it faster." 

Aziraphale can't help the strained shivery exhale at the command. The way he leans into his task with renewed purpose. Because Crowley has never asked anything of him, never in words, not like this. He's never demanded, never expected Aziraphale to see to any of his needs. 

How very selfish he's been.

Aziraphale uses more lubricant to coat the bead that's next on the line, enjoying the glisten of his fingers, the way they leave shiny patches on Crowley's pale skin. The way they slip over the soft, vulnerable dips and curves of him, leave the skin slick and warm. He eases the silicone in deeper, the second to last bead pressing in, stretching easy and slow, before he gives a gentle tug on the end, drawing it free again. He repeats the movement, adding more lubricant just to touch the warm, fluttering stretch of Crowley's body opening around it, just to dip his finger inside, just to feel the low, gasping noises of pleasure that roll through Crowley's skin.

Aziraphale's own arousal, trapped and too tight, leaking into his underwear, is strangely enjoyable. It's an aching throb that makes everything sharp and urgent. He's never been so aware of himself, of his desire, a need that's bitingly physical like hunger, but deeper and less controllable, sliding all around his corporation like a living thing. It's so much more than he's ever felt before. As if his desire for Crowley is suddenly the most necessary part of him.

He finds a rhythm that seems to please the demon, a press and push, then a slow pull out again, with the occasional slow circling drag around the stretched opening that leaves Crowley's stomach jumping, hand moving on his cock as it drips and trails wetly on his skin. Only for his fingers to tighten around himself sharply, dragging a hiss and a shaken moan out of him.

"S'good, Aziraphale -" Crowley bites down on his name. "You're doing so good."

He takes the praise for encouragement, spreading Crowley open with his other hand, and moving the last bead into position. The rounded swell of it is unexpectedly large beneath his thumb. Crowley shifts and tilts his hips, moving his thighs as if to make room for anything Aziraphale wishes to press inside him. And he can't help the way his body clenches and throbs at the thought. The way it's suddenly so much harder to breathe. He doesn't know if Crowley would want that, but no one's going to punish Aziraphale for thinking it, for wanting it, for wondering what it would be like. To bury himself in the demon, to feel the shivers and sighs and moans through his own skin, to bring him pleasure with his own flesh.

He's shaken from his thoughts when the last bead pushes into Crowley at his gentle urging, his own fingers pressing tight and hard to the end of the toy, to the warmth of Crowley's body, which is still open around the tips of his fingers. He can't help the shaky breath, the almost-startled way he says Crowley's name.

There's a choke of air, Crowley's legs tugging open wider, his hand moving on his cock in slippery pulls, so close to Aziraphale's face he can smell Crowley's sharp, brimstone desire. It's subtle, and then suddenly overwhelming as Crowley's cock jerks and spills across his stomach in long, messy lines. He works his way through it with slow, stuttering tugs and squeezes, while his stomach jumps, and his breathing breaks on a groan. It's such a shocking, nakedly human display of pleasure, one he'd never imagined they could experience, and Aziraphale is captivated.

He remembers belatedly what Crowley had said at the beginning, and sets his slippery fingers moving again, coaxing the bead out of him only to push it in again, and again, quick and easy, deliciously wet, causing Crowley's arsehole to spasm, and twitch, and to clench greedily every time Aziraphale presses the bead in fully.

Crowley whines, high in his throat, breath rushing out in one burning exhale, his thighs strain, hips lifting as Aziraphale works, until Aziraphale can't tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins. His cock is still drooling come, the mess of it running down Crowley's fingers and pooling on his stomach. Until he gives a low, moaning breath, and his wet hand falls away to smear messily on the sheets. Aziraphale has seen his share of human sexuality, but none of it has ever affected him quite like this. None of it has ever felt so intimately personal. He's never wanted anything as much as he wants this. He aches inside his trousers, with a sharpness that feels like punishment, and he's not sure he wants it to stop.

Crowley stares at him down the sweaty, come-streaked, strikingly beautiful mess of his body. At the way Aziraphale must be so obviously flushed and breathless and overwhelmed, fingers tacky with lubricant. One hand is curled too tightly at Crowley's thigh, the other still touching the ring that holds the line of beads, now buried fully inside Crowley's still twitching anus. But then Crowley moves, spine bending as he curls forward, as he slowly reaches down, finds the ringed end of the toy and pulls. He gives a shaky over-sensitised moan as every bead stretches its way free, and slips from him. More of them than Aziraphale thought, and the sight of it is so lewdly unforgettable that he fears he'll destroy whole years of his life making room for the memory.

Until the toy is free, left to rest on the sheets, glistening and wet.

Slowly, as if Aziraphale is some prey animal that might run at the first sign of aggression, Crowley leans in, curls shaking fingers around his arm.

"Angel."

"What do I -" What does he do now? He can't quite make himself move, he can't make himself retreat, his whole body ringing and tight with the greedy need to stay, to touch, to kiss, to find some argument to convince Crowley to let him, to let him, to let him -

"Anything you want, Aziraphale," Crowley tells him, as if he doesn't understand that Aziraphale is falling into madness.

He's moving, somehow, hands in Crowley's damp, artfully disarrayed hair, feeling its softness between his fingers, strangely cool where its been tipped into the pillows, and he's dragging him closer, finding his mouth with his own - not expecting Crowley's to come alive the moment they touch, to open for the wet, eager press of his tongue - he's certain he must feel clumsy and unpractised, but he's so desperate to feel him. To thank him for sharing such an unbearably erotic experience with him.

"Yesss," Crowley hisses between kisses. "Anything, anything you want, angel."

Anything he wants.

Madness.

He wants everything, because of course he does.

Aziraphale doesn't have the coordination, or the natural, sinuous grace of Crowley, all sense he may have had has been lost in his sudden desperation to join them together.

Crowley saves him, as he always does, nimble fingers dragging his shirt out of his trousers, and then tugging at the catch and zip, sliding his long hands beneath Aziraphale's underwear in a shock of intimacy. He pushes everything down, just far enough to expose the indecent curve of Aziraphale's buttocks, and the deep, red stiffness of his erection. Which has always seemed somehow much lewder when viewed from above. A statement of intent, a greedy demand for pleasure -

He's falling into Crowley, touching him with desperate hands, as the demon's sharp fingers grasp him back, tight enough to feel, tight enough to bruise if he were human, wherever his clothes have been rucked up, and untucked, and pushed down. Aziraphale is barely undressed, and it seems intolerable somehow, and yet exactly what he wants at the same time. He can almost feel the wet, tacky smears of come on his waistcoat and shirt, and finds that he doesn't care. This is nothing like how he might have imagined things between them, when he'd dared to imagine a time when he could touch Crowley freely, when he'd dared to picture them like this. He might have expected something gentle, something careful and slow, a long, cautious, romantic journey towards this particular flavour of intimacy.

No.

This is rather more appropriate for them, when given the opportunity to consider it.

He finds where Crowley is still slick and stretched open, where he'd helped to stretch him, to please him, to bring him to orgasm, fingers now given permission to press and push all the way inside. Aziraphale can feel his heat, and his exquisite clutching tightness. He has permission for far more than this, and the thought thrills him, as Crowley helps him awkwardly adjust to the right angle, the sensitive head of his cock sliding and nudging where Crowley's body opens for him. Aziraphale finds himself brave enough to hold himself there, to push inside, to claim that space for himself, to join their bodies together. 

Crowley breathes his name, makes a sound like a sob, and pulls him all the way deep with his thighs, and hands, mouth biting at Aziraphale's moaning one.

It's all too much to process, too much to feel all at once. Aziraphale's worried he won't manage a single thrust, that he'll simply shake himself apart inside the demon he loves.

But he can already feel his hips moving, can feel the blissful sliding push, the sweet clench of slick heat, as he works deeper into Crowley's body, as he draws free and then presses in again, and again, until that's all he can do. Until he can do nothing but fuck his beautiful, impossible, incredible demon, while Crowley digs his nails into Aziraphale's back, hisses encouragement against his mouth, and squeezes him like he intends to keep him. All the words Aziraphale has wanted to say for an age tangle in his throat, as he watches Crowley's body move beneath his own, as he watches his throat stretch on a groan, those exquisite eyes fixed on him, nakedly possessive in a way that leaves Aziraphale shaking.

"Crowley."

Aziraphale doesn't want this to end, doesn't want to be anywhere else, wants to stay buried in the clenching heat of Crowley's body. The very idea of their corporations fitting together so perfectly, so blissfully. That this simple, messy pull and push can be so affecting, so affirming, destroying every sensible notion inside his head that ever thought they would be anything other than made for each other. He hadn't ever expected making love could feel so much like being gently pulled into pieces.

It's too much, all his strength, and stamina, and stubbornness is for naught. He can feel himself fast approaching orgasm, and he can't bear to stop, or to slow down. He lets it take him, driving hard and deep into the glorious warmth that is Crowley, feeling the ground give way beneath him as he leaves long pulses of come inside him, as he leaves part of himself inside. The demon gives a shaky curse, hand pushing between them to touch the reddened, oversensitive jut of his own cock, to work it in short, desperate pulls, until it spits weakly again, leaves him moaning the word Aziraphale has known was an endearment for more than two thousand years.

Aziraphale thinks he gasps an apology against Crowley's mouth, though the demon shushes him immediately, kisses him soft and slow until Aziraphale starts to soften. Until they're a messy, sweaty tangle, breathing in a way their corporations expect to after exertion. Crowley's naked body still stretched beneath Aziraphale's mostly still-clothed one. Which makes him feel like some scandalous brute who's taken his pleasure without a care. Crowley doesn't immediately draw away from him, far from it, he hums pleasure and eases a touch to one side, so Aziraphale can slip free of him and rest against the sheets, his wet, sensitive dick cooling in the air of the room.

Aziraphale can't for the life of him find anything to say. Uncertain if this was something they have been heading towards for centuries, an admission that they are, and always have been, lovers waiting to consummate their relationship. Or whether it will be passed off, as Crowley suggested, as a moment of weakness between friends that will remain unspoken, until perhaps weakness takes one of them again. Aziraphale can't help the quiet twinge of pain at the thought of Crowley choosing the latter.

"That was - 

"Incredible," Aziraphale admits. 

Crowley stares at him, as if he'd meant to say something else entirely. Aziraphale finds himself embarrassed suddenly, certain that he's shared too much. But Crowley gives a quiet huff of agreement and carefully rolls closer, tacky hand cautiously slipping under Aziraphale untucked shirt. He really is in a dreadful state.

"Yeah, it was, but you deserved something better than that, for your first time." Crowley exhales an annoyed breath, as if he's blaming himself for this. "A bit more special than me basically talking you into getting me off, and then spreading my legs for you." He winces at his own phrasing. "Not very bloody romantic."

"There was not a moment of that I didn't enjoy," Aziraphale tells him, which is nothing but the truth.

"Aziraphale." There's something of an apology in his name, and Aziraphale hears it, wants desperately to head it off so it never emerges.

"And I shall accept whatever you choose this to be. Whatever you decide it means -"

"I love you," Crowley says flatly, like the last confession of a man going to the guillotine.

Aziraphale's carefully worded speech breaks apart and dissolves into nothing. He'd known, of course he'd known, the demon had never hidden it - never hidden it well. But there'd never been any indication that he was willing to act on it. That he'd wanted to change what was between them. Never any sign that Crowley desired him as a lover. 

Aziraphale had certainly never expected him to say the words out loud.

"You know I do," Crowley continues miserably into the silence. "How could you not. And I know it might have made you reluctant to do this with me, but it means something to me that you did. And I would never use it against you, I would never expect anything from you."

Dear God, the love of his life is an idiot. Obviously he'd known this, but it does bear repeating sometimes, it really does.

Aziraphale winds an arm round Crowley's waist and draws him in, enjoying the curling stretch of naked limbs against his clothed ones. The way Crowley's mouth twists a little, as if he wants to - or thinks he should - refuse the intimacy, but is utterly incapable.

"If I had the choice of everyone in Creation, it would still have been you," Aziraphale tells him. "And though I'm aware it was a little unorthodox, and unexpectedly frenzied, as first times go, I fail to see how any intimacy with you could be anything but making love."

Crowley makes an incoherent noise, expressive eyes far too naked to hide anything.

"It never felt safe to tell you, but I should have done nonetheless. I love you, of course I do -"

"Aziraphale." It's a protest, as if Crowley can't bear it, as if he thinks the world will stop turning if his feelings are returned. But Aziraphale rather thinks that the end of the world was quite enough to make them both realise that even immortal beings don't always have forever.

"I love you in every way. That isn't going to change, the rest we can work out later."

Crowley gives a breathless laugh. "Is it really that easy?"

"If you want it to be," Aziraphale says, more softly.

Crowley makes a messy noise that's either amusement or annoyance. Possibly both.

"Fuck, if I'd known all I had to do to get your attention was let you catch me masturbating, I would have done it years ago."

"Fiend," Aziraphale says, though there's far too much affection in it to make it anything but an endearment.

"Angel," Crowley counters.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] A Moment Of Your Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24926722) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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